‘And what did he turn his hand to afterwards?’ Ibrahim asks.
‘Cyber stuff,’ says Connie. ‘Passwords, I don’t know. But he’s still making plenty of money.’
‘And how did your paths cross?’ Ibrahim asks.
‘I wrote him a fan letter once,’ says Connie, ‘and he wrote back, which, you know, he didn’t have to. And I went to a charity ball at his house – there were police, criminals, everyone. Bradley Walsh was there, you know from the TV?’
Ibrahim nods. ‘Finally someone I have heard of.’
‘Why the interest?’ Connie asks.
‘Have you heard of a place called The Compound?’
‘Of course I have,’ says Connie. The Compound, of all places. She wasn’t expecting that today. What has Ibrahim got himself involved with?
‘It was run by two friends of ours,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Holly Lewis and Nick Silver. I say “friends” – Nick vomited at a wedding and Holly died shortly after meeting us.’
‘Sorry for your loss,’ says Connie.
‘Anyway,’ says Ibrahim, ‘they met up with Davey Noakes not long before Holly Lewis’s murder.’
‘Any idea what about?’ Connie asks.
‘I believe they had a security issue,’ says Ibrahim. ‘They called upon the counsel of two individuals and Davey was one.’
‘Well, that’s Davey,’ says Connie. ‘He can cause your security issues or he can solve them, depending who he works for.’
Ibrahim nods. ‘I wonder if I might ask two further questions?’
‘Go right ahead,’ says Connie.
‘Thank you,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Do you think that Davey Noakes is the sort of person who, under a certain set of circumstances, might murder someone?’
Connie laughs. ‘Of course.’
Ibrahim nods. ‘And, secondly, are you a client of The Compound yourself?’
Connie tongs a couple of ice cubes into both drinks, and considers him. ‘Shall we retire to the cinema room? Anything you fancy watching?’
‘Anything you recommend?’
‘Do you watch Below Deck?’ Connie asks.
‘Jog my memory,’ says Ibrahim.
‘It’s a reality show following the crew of a super-yacht,’ says Connie.
‘I have yet to catch it,’ says Ibrahim.
Connie leads Ibrahim into the darkness of the cinema room, two rows of four velvet armchairs all facing a huge screen. Ibrahim and Connie take seats in the front row, and she sees Ibrahim tilt his seat back.
‘So are you?’ says Ibrahim. ‘A client? You have things which require cold storage?’
‘I’m a criminal,’ says Connie. ‘I use cold storage, hot storage, encasing-something-in-concrete-and-dumping-it-in-the-sea storage. My whole job is storage. Money, drugs, evidence, information.’
‘But The Compound specifically,’ says Ibrahim. ‘You use it? You could get into it?’
‘Huh,’ says Connie. ‘Do you worry sometimes about our boundaries? As therapist and client?’
She has been reading about boundaries.
‘I think you and I make our own rules,’ says Ibrahim. Connie loves that he makes stuff up as he goes along. Ibrahim’s wisdom is artfully seasoned by self-interest. That’s why they get along. ‘I, because I’m older, and have earned the right to make my own rules, and you, because you adhere to rules very badly. So our boundaries are porous.’
Porous boundaries. Sure, thinks Connie. Whatever Ibrahim needs to tell himself. He speaks to a drug dealer every week, and he enjoys it. He disapproves of everything Connie does, and yet back he comes, like a dog to a favourite tree.
‘The Compound’s not really something I can speak to you about,’ says Connie. She really does need to shut this down if she can. ‘The less you know about it, the better.’
‘It’s just two friends talking,’ says Ibrahim. ‘We are friends, I hope?’
For a clever man, Ibrahim can be very transparent. He wants Connie to talk about The Compound; Connie doesn’t want to. He has approached her directly, and been rebuffed directly, and so she now has a whole afternoon of Ibrahim trying different tacks to get the information he wants. He has begun with flattery, but that’s not where he will end. He will be insufferable. Connie doesn’t want him getting tangled up with The Compound. Too many bad people, even for her. But if Ibrahim really wants to know something, there are very few places where she can hide from him.
‘I’ll make you a deal,’ says Connie. ‘If you can make it through an episode of Below Deck with me, I’ll help you get into The Compound.’
Ibrahim swishes his whisky around in its tumbler. ‘If I say yes, can we have more whisky?’
‘We can,’ says Connie.
‘Then it’s a deal,’ says Ibrahim. ‘Let’s get this Below Deck nonsense out of the way and then we can talk.’
34
‘She texted me a name,’ says Donna. ‘Jill Usher. Asked if I could look into her.’
‘But it’s not your case, Donna,’ says Chris. ‘It’s DCI Varma’s case.’
‘She died at Coopers Chase,’ says Donna, as Patrice fills her wine glass. ‘Elizabeth was the first to reach the body. That makes it our case, morally, although, yeah, not actually. I should have a poke around at least.’
‘So you’re going to do what Elizabeth tells you to do?’ Chris asks.
‘For now,’ says Donna. ‘Maybe when you’re armed we’ll be able to stand up to her.’
‘If you start investigating,’ says Patrice, dipping a carrot baton in some hummus, ‘who’s going to look after Prince Edward?’
‘That’s the thing – Elizabeth knew I was bored,’ says Donna, sheepishly. ‘We broke into an office, and that was fun.’
‘Honestly,’ says Chris. ‘I leave you alone for one week.’
It is a lovely, sleepy Sunday evening. Patrice has cooked a roast chicken, and Donna can smell it in the oven. Her mum has virtually been living with Chris over the summer holidays. Are her boss and her mum going to get married one of these days? Donna will cross that bridge when she comes to it. Chris has been regaling them both with tales of his firearms course.
At first he’d said he’s been firing guns all week, but after a couple of glasses of wine he admitted that he’s mainly been sitting in lectures being told how to avoid firing guns under any circumstances. But then they do have target practice.
‘Be careful though,’ says Chris.
‘You’re jealous Elizabeth asked me to help, and not you.’
‘Not my case,’ says Chris. ‘Let someone else deal with the Thursday Murder Club for once. I’ve got guns to fire.’
Donna raises an eyebrow.
‘Okay, I’ve got lectures about firing guns to go to.’
‘I’ll be careful, I promise,’ says Donna. ‘Won’t tread on anyone’s toes. If I find out something about Jill Usher, I’ll pass it on, but that’s it. She was squeaky clean at first glance though.’
‘And that’s it?’ Chris asks.
‘That’s it,’ says Donna.
‘She’s hasn’t asked you to do anything else?’
‘Not a thing,’ says Donna.
‘Not even a tiny extra favour?’
‘I mean,’ says Donna, shrugging, ‘she wondered if I could talk to Joanna’s husband.’
‘She wants you to talk to Paul Brett?’
‘Well, she can’t,’ says Donna. ‘In case Joyce finds out.’
‘And you’re going to do it?’
‘You could come with if you fancied?’ Donna says. ‘When your course is done?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ says Chris.
‘You must be a bit tempted to help?’ says Patrice.
‘Help the Thursday Murder Club?’ says Chris.
‘You love them,’ says Patrice. ‘You miss them. I think you once called out “Joyce” in your sleep.’
‘Let me tell you a story,’ says Chris.